


Would You Know My Name

by SunGreen70



Category: Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 00:40:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1206439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunGreen70/pseuds/SunGreen70
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally written for the LiveJournal Whose-a-Thon, July 2011. Prompt: Clive deals with a death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Would You Know My Name

When Clive opens the door to find Greg standing there, he laughs. Because really, who else would turn up unannounced, unapologetically waking him in the middle of the night? He doesn’t question it, just steps back to let Greg enter the flat while relief washes over him.

“It’s only eight o’clock in California,” Greg announces, marching straight to the liquor cabinet. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

Clive smirks, glancing down at his plush burgundy bathrobe. “If that’s what you’re going to wear,” he retorts, nodding at Greg’s familiar Nine Inch Nails T-shirt, the one in which he’s taken great pleasure in mocking for many years. It occurs to him that this is likely why Greg has worn it tonight. 

“Fair enough. Let the games begin, Mr. A.”

Brandy in hand, Clive raises his glass to Greg and they settle comfortably on the sofa as though they’re continuing a conversation left off only minutes ago. Which is precisely how it feels. They talk and laugh about everything unimportant; a tacit agreement between them to avoid the real reason Greg is here.

After the third brandy, the bottle is returned to the liquor cabinet. Greg isn't going to let Clive drink so much that he loses the careful control he’s had over his emotions for the past two days. Clive is grateful for this beyond an ability to express, so he simply smiles at Greg and hopes that it conveys his appreciation. A touch on his hand, light enough that it could pass for a draft from the open window, tells Clive that Greg understands.

They continue talking long after the booze is gone, and the sun is just beginning to color the sky. Daybreak finds them sprawled on opposite ends of the sofa. Greg is snoring, mouth hanging open. And yet Clive sleeps more peacefully than he has in days.

******

Clive doesn’t remember much about the funeral. He knows he sat in the last pew at the church, and stood towards the back of the group of mourners at the cemetery. He remembers Greg looking uncommonly dapper in his charcoal gray suit – though he knows from watching the US version of Whose Line that he has upgraded his wardrobe, Clive will forever associate Greg with jeans and ugly shirts. And he recalls feeling faint for a brief instant, just as the first handful of dirt hits the lowered casket. The moment passes quickly, and when he regains his composure, he feels Greg’s hand on his back, steadying him. It stays there through the remainder of the service.

Afterwards Greg accompanies him to a tea shop. It’s one they’ve frequented together, though Greg prefers coffee, which the shop doesn’t serve. This time he doesn't complain. He's uncharacteristically quiet, and Clive lets his thoughts wander as he nurses a cup of Darjeeling. The tea is deliciously hot, and soothes his rattled nerves as it goes down. For the first time, he pokes gingerly at the dark corners of his mind where the grief lurks. He knows he won’t be able to contain it much longer. He glances across the table and sees Greg dumping spoonful after spoonful of sugar into his cup until Clive can’t bear to watch anymore.

He’s glad he’s there.

******

It’s somewhat early, but Clive retires to his bedroom immediately upon their arrival home. The strain of the day coupled with the late night before have left him exhausted. As he’s preparing for bed, Greg appears at the open door. “Need anything?”

Clive starts to decline, then he nods slightly. “You.”

Greg looks startled, but he moves fully into the room. “You sure? Now?”

“Yes.”

Just like their conversations, sex with Greg is familiar and comfortable and has the feel of returning to it after minutes instead of months. Clive grabs hungrily at Greg, trying to pull him closer, hoping to lose himself completely. But there’s an unaccustomed gentleness on Greg’s part that doesn’t let Clive quite forget that his world has been turned upside down.

A few times the cries that come from Clive are of grief, not of passion, and though they’re virtually indistinguishable, he feels Greg tighten his grip ever so slightly each time his emotions betray him. Afterward, Greg lies spooned around him, hands stroking Clive’s chest, breath warm in his ear.

******

Greg has been in Clive’s home for over a week, his presence a soothing constant. It’s like old times, as they talk and laugh, argue and drink. Some nights they have sex, with that new tenderness beneath the familiar passion. Other times they simply lie side by side in the bed, and Clive listens to Greg breathe as he drifts off to sleep.

Clive could almost forget, but occasionally Greg broaches the subject, trying to make him talk about it.

“This isn’t good for you, Clive,” he says once, his eyes uncharacteristically serious behind his glasses. “You need to come to terms with it, and move on.”

Somewhere inside him, Clive knows Greg is right, but he can’t face it. Not yet. He gets up without answering and heads for the liquor cabinet.

“Scotch?” he asks, his back to Greg as he takes down the bottle.

There’s a barely audible sigh behind him. Greg’s voice is gentle when he replies. “All right, Mr. A.”

******

A week later Greg cajoles Clive to go for a drive, insisting that it will be nice to get out. Clive agrees reluctantly, for Greg’s sake, since he’s not left Clive’s side in weeks and it isn’t fair to keep him cooped up in the flat all day long. But once they’re on the road, he starts to feel good. It’s a beautiful summer day, and he feels himself smiling as the wind tousles his hair through the open windows.

"Take a right here," Greg directs, and Clive does so automatically, glancing around appreciatively at the brilliant blue sky and the vibrant purple freesia blooming at the side of the road. A few more instructions from Greg and Clive suddenly frowns as he realizes where they're headed.

"Go on down this road a bit," Greg urges, but his wary expression tells Clive he expects an argument.

And he gets one. Clive pulls over right where he is and cuts the ignition. "Greg..." 

"Clive, it's been three weeks," Greg interrupts firmly. "You can't keep pretending it didn't happen."

"I'm not pretending anything," Clive protests, though he knows what Greg means.

Greg sighs. "Clive... you haven't let yourself accept it yet. The longer you wait, the harder it'll be. And I can't stay here forever," he adds gently. Clive glances up. Well, he knew that, of course. But he doesn't like to think about Greg leaving. About being in his flat without him, giving him something to focus on and keep the grief at bay. "I need to know you're going to be all right after I leave," Greg continues. "Do it for me, okay?"

Their gazes meet and hold. Clive can see his reflection in Greg's glasses, and he has to look through himself to see Greg. Clive has always been able to tell what Greg really needs, even when he covers up on the surface with sarcasm, simply by looking into his eyes. The same eyes that are now urging him to let go.

Clive makes his decision then. It’s the most painful one he’s ever made.

He nods slowly. "All right then, Greg."

Greg smiles slightly. "Let's go." 

Mechanically, Clive starts up the car and drives the rest of the way down the road. He parks in the designated area for cemetery visitors and gets out of the car. Greg follows him as far as the entrance but pauses just inside.

"You go on," he tells Clive. When Clive starts to protest, he adds, "You need to do this alone." When Clive hesitates, Greg suddenly steps forward and wraps his arms around him in a hug. The unaccustomed gesture startles Clive so much that the tears that were beginning to threaten dissolve and he almost laughs as Greg steps away, looking embarrassed by his own sentimentality. "Now go," Greg orders, and Clive obeys. 

The grave is a few hundred feet from the entrance, down a flower lined cobblestone path. Clive moves slowly, eyes locked on the smooth grey headstone that he's seen only once before, the day of the funeral. But he knows it's the right one without needing to consult the directory at the cemetery gates. He glances over his shoulder once to see Greg puffing on a cigarette while he examines the inscriptions on some of the headstones, and a smile tugs at his lips. Smoking in a graveyard must surely be some unpardonable breach of etiquette, but coming from Greg it doesn’t seem disrespectful. Somehow, Greg without a cigarette would be far more inappropriate.

“Clive?”

The sound of his name, accompanied by a touch on his arm makes Clive start. His feet have carried him almost all the way to the grave, and to a figure he hadn't noticed standing nearby. “Josie…” They move simultaneously into one another’s embrace, and he feels Josie’s tears dampening his shirtfront.

“I’ve been wanting to come to see you since…” Josie trails off, sniffling. “But the way you looked at the service… I knew you weren’t ready for company yet. I didn’t expect to see you here today. I just stopped by to…” She indicates a bouquet of flowers she has clutched in her hand.

“That was lovely of you, Josie.” Clive gives her shoulders a gentle squeeze. She looks up into his face.

“How are you?” she asks softly. “We’ve all been so worried about you.”

He forces a smile. “No need. I’m fine. Really.” His eyes move to where Greg was, just a moment ago, but he’s disappeared from view. Josie’s next words catch his attention and he looks back at her.

“I’m glad he chose to be buried over here,” she says softly. “I always did think that this was where he felt most at home.”

Clive wants to cover his ears with his hands. He can’t listen to this, can’t talk about it. His throat is getting tight, and his eyes are stinging suspiciously. He wants to scream at Josie to go away. He can’t do that, of course. He looks over her head, away from her eyes full of equal parts pain and sympathy.

Josie turns away then, giving him a chance to regain his composure. She kneels down and lays the flowers on the still loosely packed dirt covering the grave, rearranging them with gentle hands. “There you are, Greg,” she murmurs. “I know you’re not much of a flower person, but at least they look nice.”

Clive’s head jerks up at the words, and his gaze falls on Josie’s finger. It lightly traces the letters engraved on the headstone, clear and sharp with newness. Not smoothed down to blurriness with time. Not yet.

_Gregory Everett Proops_

_1959-2010_

 

It’s too late. Clive has seen the words. His heart begins racing, his head feels light. The earth seems to shift under his feet, throwing him off balance. He whips around to look behind him, back near the entrance, but there’s no one there.

“Greg!” His voice is a strangled cry.

Josie jerks her head up. Clive doesn’t notice as he frantically scans the vast grounds of the graveyard. “Greg…” he calls again, shakily. The truth is dawning on him, smothering him with its awful knowledge. Feebly, he tries to push it back, but he can’t hold it off any longer. 

“Clive… dear…” Josie is on her feet, reaching for him. Clive steps back from her touch.

“Greg…” he murmurs. Greg doesn’t answer. He can’t. He’s not there anymore.

“Oh, Clive…” The tears are sliding down Josie’s cheeks.

“He’s gone,” Clive says softly.

Josie looks at him, puzzlement mixed with worry. “Yes, Clive. Greg is gone. Three weeks today.”

"Forever..." he chokes, almost whimpers. "I'll never see him again."

Josie wipes her eyes and reaches for him again. He doesn't move away this time. Her embrace is surprisingly strong. Her arms are warm, solid, and alive. Clive finds himself leaning into her. "We're all going to be here for you, Clive," she murmurs. "It's going to be all right."

_I hope you're listening to her._ The voice sounds as though it's right in Clive's ear. He lifts his head from Josie's shoulder, and looks around, but he doesn't see Greg anymore.

"We all love you, Clive," Josie whispers, her hands smoothing his back.

_They do. I'm leaving you in their hands._ Greg's voice sounds further away now. Clive knows it's no use to look for him anymore. He allows his head to drop back down on Josie's shoulder. The last words he hears over Josie's soft crooning are so faint he could almost be imagining them.

_And you didn't hear this from me, but I love you too._


End file.
